With unmatched greenness the plot of earth holding the body stands out on the hillside.

Most of the day’s life is drawn there toward what’s vanished into emptiness.

the end of the world never changes

the last words from The Worlds Last Night, with no dot at the end. Yet the world of the end changes with every printed or erased line. There are no borders of inherited pain between the verses of this book, even when its sharp edge can let blood from your lines of life, Books are cursed to be archaeological artifacts only when they are about the ground

away from the worms of oblivion and the waiting hands of the clock. MTC Cronin’s proems are soft as a stone that becomes sand in an hourglass, silent as a darkness in an empty suitcase. Her purified world of long-distance silence clear the dust from the human’s distrust in all yesterdays, deaths and gods. Look at stone / if you wish to read the language of wind. Dreamy words carved in the air! Nikola Madzirov